Becoming Portly

I'm awaiting getting my port installed into my veins. This is leaving me with mixed feelings. I'm contented because this will mean they don't make me into a pin cushion at the hospital any longer, but it also makes me feel defeated because it will be a constant reminder that I will always be on treatment.

It's a good thing because they always have issues with getting an iv in. Once it took 13 tries. Ouch. My left arm will be less bruised once I have this port installed.

It's bad because I'll have this reminder 24/7 that I am on treatment. That I'm a cancer patient.

Being stage 4 breast cancer sucks. It really, really sucks. Bloody cancer.

Gotta brush that hair off your shoulder...

It's official.  I'm seeing hair (albeit stubby lil hairs since having shaved earlier in the month) on my towels after bathing.  My head itches, I scratch, I see hair stuck to my nails.

Yeah...

No matter how much I say that I know it's coming, that I will lose my hair, there's something you should know about me: I stay too bloody positive and hopeful.  Some people don't lose their hair to chemos and others will every time.  We all react differently to different medicines.  I hoped this new chemo would not make my hair fall out.  There was a slight chance.  Very slight.  Okay, almost no chance, but it was still a chance, dammit!

Please!  No "you're still beautiful" or "it's just hair" comments.  You mean well, but the dead horse is listing lazily to the left over there, if you hurry you can still beat it.  Just let me wallow in the fact that cancer is again very real in my life.  It's another reminder of what is hidden me, for my cancer is not presently visible.

Now excuse me as I invest in lint rollers for my failing hair follicles.

Chemo.. For Life

I've started the IV chemotherapy.  Six rounds of that every three weeks, then they're thinking of putting me on chemo pills.  I'm hearing mixed reactions from people that have been on the pills, so far. 

This chemo is supposedly easy to tolerate.  So far I can agree with that.  I'm tired, and at times I don't realize how tired I am, but the nausea has been easily controlled, and I'm just starting to get joint/bone pain.  All the effects are supposed to be temporary but I don't know how to take that when the instructions all say "once you're finished..." to summarize effects.  If I can't tolerate the pill chemo, there's a good chance I'll be switched back to this IV chemo.  For you see, I'm stage IV (four), my cancer metastasized.  I'll never be "cured" we're trying to contain it, keep it from spreading further.  I'll be on treatment for life.

Many don't realize this.  Once you cross from stage III to stage IV you go from trying to cure it to keep it from claiming entire organs.  You hope that you can keep it contained.  You will be living with cancer, some refer to that as a "Lifer".

I have started up a "bucket list", I'll be sharing that at a later date.  I'm starting to look at what I want in life more than just what I need.  Everyone hopes they'll be remembered, it the end.  I'm looking at how I hope to be thought of.

I'm living with cancer, living with chemo, but I'll be living.

Hair Today, Bald Tomorrow

So cancer is back.  And, with my case, cancer means chemo.  This chemo will, once again, mean no hair.  Of course, everyone says, "It's just hair."  They mean well, they really do.  They are trying to help cheer me up, help me cope with what I have to deal with.  What they don't know is what the hair means to me.

When I first started chemo back in 2010, I donated 20" of my hair to be made into a wig for someone else with cancer and still had hair to my chin.  I always had long hair.  After all this time, my hair was finally to my bra line.  Now I'm losing my hair once more.  What was my hair?  It was recognition of time since chemo.  I had grown that much since the cancer was evicted from my body, and I don't just mean the hair.  I had taken that much back from all that cancer and the treatments took from me. 

My hair was a trophy.  My hair was a badge of survival.  My hair was a sign of what I was trying for in a post cancer life.  My hair was a revival of the past.  Now, I lose it.  It will take me years to get back to this stage.  I might never get back to this stage, and that's another thing that non-cancer people will not understand.  I might be stuck on drugs and treatments that will never let me have any semblance of the appearance I have become accustomed to.  I might never look like I do now ever again.

Yes, it is just hair.  Yes, I might be able to grow it back.  But I might not be able to.  And, for now, I will be looking in the mirror and seeing someone with no hair.  Someone that all her life up until 2010, had had long hair.  I will find a way to cope, but it doesn't make it any less difficult to deal with.

But deal with it I will.  I might be living with cancer, but I will be living.

Shave Time

Well...  It's back.  Cancer has taken residence in my ribs and lungs.  I'm currently undergoing radiation therapy, but I just found out that I'm going to be having chemotherapy, again.  Before I lose my hair I want to put it to use so I'm having a solo Shave for the Brave.  Please consider supporting my endeavour here:

Julie's Shave Page

Thanks for your support!

Conquer Cancer

Many get hung up on the title of calling those with or that had cancer survivors, but what if we looked passed that for a moment.  What about the word we use for the journey of having cancer that many of us that actually have/had cancer despise?  "Battling" cancer.  It's somewhat hated because it means that if you "lose your battle" then you are, in fact, a loser.  Cancer won, it is the winner, not you.  What if we conquered cancer instead of battled it?

You can conquer something without destroying it.  You can place your expectations, your realities, you bend it to your will and not the other way around.  You claim victory over it.  You overcome it.  You conquer your cancer.

Isn't that a better way to look at those of us that face cancer?  It doesn't matter if we are living with our cancer, if we evicted it, or if we die due to complications from it.  We can still conquer our cancer.  We didn't lose a battle, we mastered our cancer.  We lived every day and faced every treatment or obstacle.  We stopped letting cancer call the shots, we made cancer concede to our wills.

We are Cancer Conquerors.  We will not let it conquer us.  We will live, we will prosper, we will thrive!

Dilemma - internal struggle

As previously stated, I'm lucky enough to be pregnant, again.  Our new little one is expected in mid-spring.  I am excited for that, except for one thing, it's causing me to have some emotional distress.  Most would say, of course having a third child when you are permanently disabled, your husband is in the Navy, and you need to find ways to make your older house work for a big family, would cause some emotional distress.  That's not the part that is bothering me the most.  I will find a way to make everything work, that's the way my mind works.  I see problems and do my best to find logical or even totally out-of-the-box, zany ideas to help find a solution.  I've always been like that.  But now, I'm facing something where the only solution is the one thing I do not want to do.  Let me explain further:

In late May YACC is having their Survivor Conference in Toronto.  I have attended this every year since my diagnosis.  One year it was canceled, that broke a lot of our hearts, but they needed to do it.  In that case there was nothing that could be done about it.  I couldn't attend another Retreat, those are a one shot thing, unless there are re-occurrences or the like.  This time, this time...  This time I face three options for Conference.

1. Attend Conference solo as I have the other years and pretend I can leave with a potentially two week old at home with my husband and not have my heart ripped apart from being separated from my new family.

2. Attend Conference with my husband and bring along our new son...  A two week old...  Either drive to Ontario or take a two week old on a flight...  And stay in a hotel that isn't that well set up (last I saw it) for caring for young children.

3. Don't go.

Of course a lot of readers will say, "Duh, you go with choice number three!"  There's a small problem with that.  This is the one time of the year I get to see my friends through YACC.  The one time of the year where we are all cancer survivors, all young adults, all dealing with the isolation we have all year long.  We are at different stages in our lives/cancer journey, but we're not being surrounded with 60 and 70 year olds, telling us that we're "so young", "well don't worry about that, I didn't", and "you won't want to worry about those things once your older".  We're able to meet up and celebrate being around for another year, able to mourn as a group all those we lost since last year, and able to draw on each others strength to make it another 365 days until we get to feel that empty spot in our lives filled, again.

Yes, I should not give it a second thought.  I should just say that I, logically, need to go with option number three...  As I sit at home and have tears running down my face.  As my heart breaks once more, like when I found out we would not be having a Conference the next year.  It's just not seeing those friends again.  It's just not seeing that family, because they are more than simply friends.  It's just not connecting with those new people, giving them friendship and hope.  It's just being scared of who won't be there next year when I might be able to go.  It's just one more year.  Just a broken heart.  It'll just mend with time, I hope.  Until then, I'm just lost inside.